


As Dust Fell, We Fled

by knightlyss



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, and then not so much, elder scrolls fusion, i wondered how the delinquents would do in skyrim and this happened, takes a bit from 100!canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9391055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightlyss/pseuds/knightlyss
Summary: “Look, I know we got off to a bad start, but I need someone strong by my side to help me get to Solitude in one piece. You seemed more than capable for such a job when we met, and I could use the company. Not to mention the pay will be-”“Shor's balls, Princess, if I say yes, will you please shut up?”aka the Skyrim AU absolutely no one asked for





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this just sort of happened...

 

 

He's being followed.

 

He isn't even sure of it at first, being so caught up in thoughts of his sister, and how to approach the subject of them looking for somewhere new to call home.

 

It's not that he doesn't like Riften: He actually _hates_ it, truth be told, but that's mostly because of the memories the city holds. It wouldn't kill him to stay put, but it would still be nice to find a little piece of land in the Rift or further beyond to call their own, to build a new home and make new memories, perhaps even start their own families. Although the thought of O being romantic with anyone feels more like someone has dumped him in icy waters than anything, he knows that he can't keep holding her back forever.

 

Besides, it would be nice to settle down.

 

He's on his way back through Falkreath, having stopped briefly at a stall to buy bread and cheese when Miller pops into view, leaning casually against the woodwork that makes up the Dead Man's Drink.

 

“Took you long enough,” Miller says, grinning. “Did you walk all the way here?”

 

“Shut up,” he laughs, clasping Miller's forearm to pull him into his embrace. For all its worth, a friendship with a thief is a dangerous thing, but Miller has never pretended to be anything other than a real human being around him, his choice of profession never even evident despite the clothing he wore. Speaking of which... “Did you find anything?”

 

Miller is positively bursting with pride as he fishes a little pouch out of his pocket, handing it over.

 

He tests the weight of it in his hands, letting his fingers slide over the bulge and ridges hidden underneath the leather, guessing it to be jewelry. Octavia will be furious, complaining that he shouldn't spend money on anything for her birthday, but he couldn't care less what she thinks about that; Eighteen is a landmark in his eyes, and he will treat her like a noble and buy her something pretty and treat her to a proper meal, damn her. Miller smirks, knowing full well what he's thinking, and he rolls his eyes, digging out a couple of septims in payment.

 

“Always a pleasure,” Miller salutes, pushing off his resting place and strolling away from him, whistling some unrecognizable tune. He huffs a laugh and ties the pouch to his belt, shaking his head lightly as he walks through the rest of the town, heading out through the gates, deciding on taking a scenic route the rest of the way. He's not supposed to be back home until tomorrow, and the fresh air could do him some good.

 

He's tired of smelling nothing but fish all day.

 

It worries him that he still feels eyes resting on his back from afar. He'd figured that Miller had been following, given that he basically already did such things for a living, but there's something persistent in the combined sound of faint footsteps and rustling of wildlife that has his heart speeding up a little.

 

Annoyed, he takes a sharp turn and heads through the tall grass, preparing to climb over hills or even hide, if that's what it would take to shake them off. There's a wide clearing up ahead, and he walks a little faster, determined to use it as a place to draw out his would-be assailant. The birds in the area make it impossible for him to listen to footsteps any more, and he heads across the clearing, letting his eyes scan the area. There's a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye, from somewhere outside the circle of trees and bushes, and he nearly smirks.

 

_Got you._

 

Slowly, he unsheathes the dagger from his belt, gripping the hilt tightly, the leather making a strained sound underneath his fingers. The trees and flora make it difficult to see, but he's more than certain that someone is hiding. Treading lightly, he inches a little further onward, trying to listen for any tell tale signs of breathing or moving around him, but it's surprisingly quiet. His pulse is still beating a steady rhythm when his eyes catch sight of something in front of him distinctively brown among all the different shades of green, and he readies himself, preparing for an attack.

 

He burst through the green, dagger raised, the angry frown on his face quickly turns to one of confusion, as he bends down to pick an Imperial bracer off the ground.

 

As he stands with the intention of searching for its owner, said owner suddenly lets an arrow fly without warning. It zips through the air and lodges itself into the ground at his feet, and he jolts, taking a few steps back into the clearing, eyes wildly searching until he catches sight of the archer walking him further backwards and into view, her mouth set in a grim line.

 

She's pale, golden hair drawn back in some sort of braided knot with a few stray wisps framing a face with fiery blue eyes, her clothing a typical Imperial uniform, one bracer missing. He vaguely registers how the outfit hangs loosely on her body as if several sizes too big.

 

“Next one goes in your chest,” she warns, bow raised and strung tight, and he may or may not have fallen in love with her right then and there.

 

The smart thing to do would be to heed her warning, but he has never considered himself to be a smart man. Throwing a quick, wordless prayer to whomever will listen, he makes a move, hurling her bracer at her and causing her to release the arrow while moving, and he dodges it at the last second, so that it flies past him and embeds itself into a nearby tree with an audible thunk.

 

She curses and reaches behind her for another arrow but he's quicker, using the gained momentum to his advantage, propelling into her and slamming them both to the ground in a tumble of limbs before she has a chance to ready herself. The bow snaps between them from the force of the impact, the wood digging painfully into his ribs, and he's pretty sure he's knocked the wind out of her, judging by the way she is gasping for her breath underneath him.

 

Not giving up, she wrestles her arms free and tries to overpower him, and he counters her attacks immediately, dropping his dagger and managing to grab her wrists and pin them somewhere above either side of her head.

 

“Would you stop?” he growls, raising himself to his knees so he can put some distance between them. She takes advantage of her newfound freedom right away, kneeing him in the groin and he swears profusely, all the fight in his bones rushing out of him immediately, leaving him a pitiful lump of a man on the ground.

 

She's squirmed out from underneath him, towering triumphantly over his heaving form, and he knows she's seconds away from either killing him or giving him a good kicking, when she bends towards him. Her hands go to the pouch at his belt, coming back with a handful of his present to Octavia: a simple silver necklace with no particular attributes to it, but significant to his attacker all the same. It belatedly occurs to him, that he should probably tell her he hadn't actually been the one to steal it from her.

 

“This is mine,” she hisses in his ear, kicking him in the ribs for good measure. He'd offer her a ridiculous retort if he could, but his mind is surprisingly blank except for a constant mantra of _breathe in, breathe out_.

 

When he comes to, she's gone.

 

 

~*~

 

 

He's tending to the aftershocks of a hangover at the Bee & Barb two nights later, shocked out of his stupor when she slams the door open and barges in without a care in the world. He stares as she takes the place in, eyes landing on him finally, widening when she realises who it is. Instead of showing anger however, she marches straight over to his table with a determined gaze, dumping her small pack next to her feet, takes off a new bow and quiver and places it next to her belongings and sits down. She's wearing something simpler this time, common breeches and a shirt that's too big on her, held in place by a bodice and a bracer on each arm, her hair loose and framing her face.

 

He feels his face warm up when he realises she's wearing the necklace Miller stole from her.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Uh... Hi?”

 

His gaze shifts momentarily to a few of the patrons scattered around the inn; Some are looking at the blonde with curiosity, others like they are more than used to strangers bursting inside taverns and demanding attention. He's not sure yet if he should pinch himself or not.

 

“I need your help.”

 

He blinks.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I need to get to Solitude. I want you to get me there.”

 

“You... What?”

 

She briefly pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, looking torn between amusement and smacking him upside down his head.

 

“I need you to act as my muscle on the road to Solitude.”

 

“Why? I mean, why me?” he adds hastily, tempted to throw his hands up in surrender when she looks just about ready to punch him for asking stupid questions. The thing is, this is not exactly a stupid question to him. She damn near kills him to get her necklace back, and then seeks him out in order to get protection? And from what?

 

Is this conversation even happening?

 

“You can take care of yourself,” she shrugs, causing him to snort. She shoots him a look of distaste, confirming his growing suspicion that she wants to be part of this conversation just as much as he.

 

“Look, I know we got off to a bad start, but I need someone strong by my side to help me get to Solitude in one piece. You seemed more than capable for such a job when we met, and I could use the company. Not to mention the pay will be-”

 

“Shor's balls, Princess, if I say yes, will you please shut up?” he snaps, cutting off her rambling and downing the rest of the mead in his tankard, feeling way too hungover for this. She looks vaguely offended at his outburst, but doesn't comment, only waits patiently while he begins to study her.

 

“What's in it for me?”

 

“Money,” she answers promptly. “two thousand septims now, and another thousand when I've been escorted safely to my destination.”

 

He forces himself to stay loose and casual, knowing she's studying him too, probably noticing the way he's fighting not to tense up at the prospect of a paid job. He could definitely use the gold, if not for himself then for his little sister. Keeping Octavia out of trouble after their mother's death had been a pain, and he shudders to think what could happen while he was away. Still, she could take care of herself with or without his help, especially as of late, although it nearly physically pains him to admit that.

 

He had given her a set of daggers for her 16th birthday, and she'd handled them masterly within a week, courtesy of Indra: a frankly terrifying Redguard who worked with his sister at the fishery.

 

He turns his attention back to the blonde in front of him, catching her eye.

 

“And what's in it for you?”

 

This catches her off guard, apparently. She frowns, and he wonders just how much she is willing to let slip in order to let him protect her. He's not exactly a mercenary or a guard, but his days with the Stormcloaks have taught him a thing or two about how to survive bandit attacks and dark things that go bump in the night. But he knows there's more in it for her sake. She could have just hired a carriage to take her all the way to Solitude, and she would most likely have made it there in one piece, if she wasn't counting on someone to attack her on the way.

 

Hunted, then, but by who?

 

“Gratitude,” she finally decides on, looking satisfied with her answer. “And I get to keep my life.”

 

He pretends to be disinterested for just a moment longer. It's hard to say no to this job, even if he should probably give it to someone else, someone more capable than him that actually does this for a living. For some reason she trusts him with her life though, and it's a trust he's willing to work to his advantage in exchange for coin.

 

“Fine. We leave at dawn.”

 

“We leave now.”

 

“Princess, I'm not sure how familiar you are with the area, but traveling at night, especially in the Rift, is not an option for a girl like you.” She damn near pouts at him when he says that, and he tries not to find it strangely endearing. Instead of fighting him like he expected her to, she nods. “Good,” he confirms.

 

“Great,” she counters, apparently determined to have the last word. He smirks.

 

“Excellent.”

 

“Brilliant.”

 

“Magnificent.”

 

She huffs a laugh and relaxes a little in her seat, and he can practically feel the moment the tension leaves her body. A real smile threatens to play on his lips, and he quickly tries to hide it as he gets out of his seat, returning a minute later with mead for the both of them. It's the least he can do.

 

“Thanks,” she mutters, taking a big gulp, and he watches the way her throat moves as she swallows. His own throat is suddenly surprisingly dry, and he takes a swig of his own, determined to fight against the cough that pushes ahead when some of the liquid goes down the wrong pipe. She raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment on his predicament.

 

“So what's in Solitude?” he asks when he's regained what's left of his dignity.

 

“Ships.”

 

“For?”

 

“If I need to tell you what ships do, I should probably find someone else to be my traveling companion,” she smiles without malice. His face warms a bit, and she laughs.

 

“Very funny, Princess,” he snorts, rolling his eyes, and her smile surprisingly fades.

 

“I wish you wouldn't call me that.”

 

“Why?” he asks, trying to hide his surprise at the sudden change of tone. It settles over the both of them like a thick pelt, smothering the relatively good mood that had been building between them, and he has no idea why. She worries her lip, looking at war with herself, and he decides then and there that it shouldn't matter what her story is. He's already said yes to the job. He's getting paid. If the name bothers her so much, he'll refrain from using it, at least until she's gone.

 

“Alright.”

 

She looks curiously at him suddenly, as if he's a puzzle meant to be solved.

 

“Thank you,” she finally says, sounding a little taken aback at his compliance, like she'd expected him to behave differently. He waves her off half-heartedly, taking another sip of mead. He's not a total dick, after all.

 

They sit in shared silence for a while, tending to their drinks and listening to the patrons around them, and it's oddly comfortable. He has no idea who she is, doesn't even know her _name_ , but she doesn't appear to be afraid of him. There's a certain calm about her, and considering her destination and previous clothing he'd peg her for an Imperial, but he could be wrong.

 

She turns her attention to him then, observing his empty tankard. She downs the rest of hers immediately, grabs them both and walks away to get more, looking positively regal as she does so.

 

He bites down on a laugh.

 

Definitely Imperial.

 

“I just realized something,” she says upon returning, handing him his drink. He takes a sip, waiting. “I don't know your name,” she clarifies, leaning back in her seat and eyeing him somewhat warily, as if not knowing someone's name should qualify as a reason not to trust them completely. He can't help but laugh a little.

 

“Bellamy.”

 

“Sound's like you're a girl,” she smirks, and he rolls his eyes. He loved his mother dearly, but there were times in her living years when he'd briefly debated her sanity in choosing a name like Bellamy.

 

It made him sound like a fucking _flower_.

 

“I'm Clarke.”

 

“Sounds like you're a boy,” he counters. She laughs, bright and loud, and he is reminded that they've both nursed more mead than food in the last hour. He should probably make her eat something. Still, he laughs with her, watching her face scrunch up in amusements as she turns his words over in her head, apparently coming to the same conclusion as him.

 

“It's not my fault. My father chose it for me.” She goes a little quiet again, as if her words have reminded her of something, and it doesn't take a genius to guess that her father is no longer part of her life.

 

Bellamy knows what sorrow and longing for a parent looks like on a face; He's seen that very same expression on Octavia too many times to count. Even he has been known to sport it himself every once in a while when liquid courage helps memories overtake him at night, or when he's sitting on the roofs at dawn, staring across the water out towards the Goldenglow Estate on the other side, wishing for a better life.

 

“My mother chose mine too,” he says gently, somehow knowing she'll understand him.

 

Her eyes are as bright as Octavia's, warmer somehow despite the intense colour, and they're staring right at his with a staggering amount of companionship that immediately goes straight to his heart.

 

It's a weird thing to bond over in Skyrim. The weather is harsh, the war even harsher, and orphans seem to roam every corner of every city except this one, yet he can't help but feel as though Clarke truly sees him when he wills his face to show just how much he wishes for his mother back. She finally nods her head at him, blinking hard before breaking eye contact.

 

“I'll get us something to eat,” she says, getting out of her seat before he can stop her.

 

They share a meat pie, washing it down with one of Talen's concoctions.

 

“I know it looks dangerous, but I promise you won't feel it in the morning,” he assures her, watching her hesitant eyes flicker over a mug of White-Gold Tower. He'd briefly debated a Cliff Racer for himself, but he figured it would most likely kill him or set his health back a few days instead of taking care of his still lingering hangover.

 

He takes a few sips of the White-Gold, barely keeping back a moan when he feels the warmth of the liquid spread from his chest to his fingers, warming every inch of skin. Apparently not one to be outdone, Clarke takes a big gulp herself, and he watches her eyes close in something akin to pleasure, no doubt feeling the effects already. There's a bit of foam on her upper lip, and he's so damn close to leaning over the table and wiping it off with his thumb, but she beats him to it, smearing it on the back of her hand with an apologetic smile.

 

“We should go to bed,” she says shyly, and he would have laughed at the double meaning if he could. Instead he feels the blood drain from his face.

 

Bed.

 

_Oh Gods._

 

“I uh, I remembered something I need to take care of. I'll find you by the stables at dawn?” he inquires, getting out of his seat as slowly as he can manage in his slightly panicked state. Her brow furrows at his sudden change in mood, but she nods slowly, watching him shoot a hasty goodbye over his shoulder, as he rushes out the doors, crossing the marketplace to get to the Scorched Hammer.

 

Everyone is still awake when he gets inside; Balimund is playing cards with Octavia while Asbjorn sulks in the corner by the fireplace with a book. He releases a breath he didn't even realize he had been holding in, catching the attention of his sister.

 

“Hey, come play with us, Bell! We need a third after Asbjorn lost all his septims.”

 

“Only because you cheated,” Asbjorn grumbles, lifting the book higher up to hide his sour expression. Balimund snorts and shakes his head, but says nothing. Octavia places her cards facedown on the table and gets up to give her brother a hug, and he feels all of his affection for her calming his nerves.

 

Or maybe it's the White-Gold.

 

She leans back in his arms and kisses his cheek before sitting down again, swatting at Balimund's hand before it can get to her cards. They laugh heartily together, the sound hitting him straight in the chest and tugging at something inside him. He's already regretting his decision to leave her behind.

 

“O, We need to talk.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

Clarke awakens the next morning with two questions at the front of her mind.

 

The first concerns Bellamy, and what wild emotion on his face had possessed him to leave the inn like a skeever on fire.

 

The second concerns the frankly terrifyingly delicious drink that she'd enjoyed last night, and how she could get her hands on a recipe without coming off as completely rude.

 

She ponders while getting dressed if he'll actually show up at the stables like he promised, or if he'll somehow have forgotten their arrangement completely, tending to other, more important matters. Last night had gone surprisingly well, and they had bonded surprisingly easily, their original first meeting nothing but a distant memory in her mind. Then, he had clammed up as soon as she'd mentioned a bed and left without a trace, and she somehow hadn't been able to drown her sorrows in the rest of her strong drink. But he wouldn't have left her so abruptly last night, if it hadn't been an emergency.

 

Right?

 

 _It doesn't matter_ , she tells herself while pulling her bodice over her head, poking her hands through the armholes and binding it a little loosely at the front. She grabs her belongings, slinging her pack over her shoulder and makes her way down the stairs, a little surprised to find that Bellamy hadn't lied. She doesn't feel hungover at all.

 

She gives a friendly smile to the argonian behind the bar, dodges the request for a mercenary from a patron, and steps outside and directly into a sunbeam. It's at least two hours past dawn, but she can't bring herself to care when the air is so vibrant with the smell of sewer and fish, accompanied by the steady noise of merchants and townspeople. It had put her off when she first arrived, but once you got used to it, there was something almost liberating about it.

 

It was decidedly different than home.

 

“I'll bet you've never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh, lass?”

 

“Excuse me?” She turns her head to the owner of the statement, catching sight of a sturdy-looking man with red hair holding up a red bottle of some kind of potion.

 

He somehow looks out of place inside the stone circle making up the market, as if he's merely put on a costume to fit in. The blue tunic is just a little too short at the wrists, but wider around the torso, confirming that it's definitely not been tailored to fit him. His face has been washed recently, but he's missed a smudge of dirt on his neck.

 

Also, his accent is incredibly distracting combined with the whole ruggedly handsome look, and she does her best to vehemently shake it off.

 

“That's none of your business,” she says resolutely, and he smirks, opening his mouth to speak again.

 

“Bryn, what the fuck?” a cross voice cuts in, and from the corner of her eye she sees a guy around her age marching resolutely towards her. Before she can really process what's happening, he's dragging her by her arm away from the city center towards the main gates with a firm yet gentle grip, ignoring the protests of his red haired friend.

 

“Sorry about him,” he apologizes, sending a small smile her way as they cross a bridge. “He's always like that.”

 

“That's OK,” she says slowly, still not entirely sure what's going on. She knows she should be furious with this dark stranger for basically kidnapping her, but there's a certain quality to him that makes her relax instantly. That's probably dangerous.

 

“It's really not,” he says, but offers her another smile anyway, and she can't help but give one in return.

 

He leads her to the gates and drops his hand immediately, turning somewhat shy in front of her. It's a little cute, and incredibly disarming, and she decides then and there that she definitely likes him.

 

“Bellamy said to get you when you were ready. He's waiting by the carriage for you.”

 

“Thank you,” she says, trying to ignore her heart that's suddenly in her throat.

 

He dismisses her words with a friendly wave, “Think nothing of it,” and turns on his heel and walks back towards the town center, probably on his way to rip this Bryn a new one, judging by his walk, despite the redhead being the bigger of the two. Still confused as to what exactly just happened, she opens the gates and steps outside, looking around.

 

Sure enough, Bellamy is there, leaning against a carriage, one brow rising in a mixture of amusement and irritation at the sight of her. He looks more than ready to travel, simple breeches and a leather jerkin over a tunic accompanied by a greatsword strapped to his back and a dagger at his belt.

 

“Good morning,” he says far too casually, shifting away from his resting spot. She smiles pleasantly back at him in return, refusing to let him have the upper hand.

 

“Good morning. Shall we get going?”

 

“Ready when you are,” he smirks, gesturing towards the carriage. She bristles visibly before she can stop herself, and he must have noticed her going stiff, because his smile immediately turns into a somewhat suspicious frown.

 

“Something wrong?” he inquires, and she doesn't know whether to cry or scowl at the curiosity laced in his tone. It's obvious that he's testing her, but he utterly fails at hiding his concern. She forces herself to shake her head as casually as possible, thoughts going a mile an hour to find a valid excuse.

 

“My horse is here,” she finally settles on, mentally kicking herself. She's grasping at straws, and it's more than obvious she's terrible at it. The look he gives her is somewhat pitying, as if she's much younger than she looks.

 

“Well, we can tether the reigns to the carriage,” he says slowly, drawing out every other syllable.

 

“I know that,” she almost snaps, already hating herself for coming up with the suggestion. He doesn't react, only watching her curiously, as if expecting her to come up with another ridiculous alternative to their transportation, and she sighs, trying not to let her frustration show. This situation is getting out of hand, and she needs to get out of Riften before she is found, and she knows that he needs to know that, but there are too many ears to keep track of, and it's suddenly all too much.

 

“I'd feel much better on horseback,” she settles on, her voice steady.

 

“I don't have a horse.”

 

“I'll buy one for you.”

 

His eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline at that, and she would have laughed if she hadn't been so tightly wound. He shrugs then, his features going back to resembling indifference after a few moments.

 

“It's your money.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

“How did you even get to Riften if you don't know the way?” he asks, turning a little in his saddle to face her. They're halfway to Whiterun, having come through on the other side of the mountain pass with naught but stiff fingers, and Helgen is now behind them, a looming ghost town of ash and smoke in their backs. She figured it would be safe to open up to him slowly, starting with mentioning her rather uneventful trip from Falkreath to Riften after their unfortunate first meeting.

 

“I fell asleep in the carriage,” she admits sheepishly, and he raises an eyebrow in response.

 

“By Ysmir, it's like you want people to kill you.”

 

She scowls at him, but he merely smirks back, making any signs of anger in her fade. He's not taunting so much as lightly teasing, and it reminds her of Wells and his constant jabbing. Wells and his smile. Wells and his bravery. It's enough to make the emotions well up in her throat, and she pushes down on them immediately, refusing to share this with him. Not now. Not _yet,_ if ever. She wants to keep Wells for herself, for as long as she can.

 

It takes a few moments to get herself back under control, which he thankfully doesn't seem to notice.

 

“As you're well aware, I made it to Riften in one piece. **And** ,” she pauses for effect, turning her attention back to him fully, “I found you.”

 

“Lucky me,” he says with a roll of his eyes, but the smirk hasn't left his face. It's as good a sign as any, and she allows herself to laugh a little, which somehow makes the corners of his mouth go higher in return.

 

They reach a fork in the road, and Bellamy takes the lead, turning his horse onto a path to the right, when she hears it.

 

“Bellamy?”

 

“It's just a fox,” he says, but straightens his back a little anyway. She listens for the rustling again, finding their surroundings quiet except for the occasional bird.

 

Maybe it really had been a fox?

 

Slowly, Bellamy brings them to a stop and lets himself slide out of his saddle onto the ground, holding his hand up to signal her to stay in place. She feels her breath quicken.

 

Have they found her already?

 

She reaches behind her to grab her bow, seeing Bellamy's hand resting loosely on the hilt of his dagger. Slowly, she reaches for an arrow in the quiver on her back, pulling it in place and aiming it at Bellamy's shoulder. He walks slowly forward, each meassured step edging closer to the source of the noise. There's rustling from somewhere behind a tree, and he draws his weapon silently, freezing in place.

 

It happens all at once.

 

A guttural scream tears from the bushes, and Clarke instinctively lets the arrow loose. It lodges itself into the now visible bandit's chest, and he stumbles momentarily before continuing forwards.

 

Bellamy dodges the sword swinging towards him and quickly catches the throat with one hand, swinging the other forwards and up, and the dagger buries itself deep in the bandit's jaw, and Bellamy twists the hilt, letting the blood spurt and cover his hands. Clarke quickly pulls another arrow from the quiver, but she knows she's too late when she hears another bandit tear forward from its hiding place, this time female.

 

Bellamy turns, free hand reaching up for his greatsword, but it's obvious he won't be able to get to it in time, and Clarke screams in protest as she watches the female swing her sword towards him.

 

He throws himself out of the way, still trying to grab at his sword when the female goes suddenly stiff beside him, crumbling to the ground, two daggers in her chest keeping her from sinking fully into the dirt. Clarke feels all the air leaving her lungs, feeling her braid smack against her cheeks as she begins looking wildly around for the third bandit while trying to calm her horse, vaguely registering that Bellamy's own horse has disappeared. Bellamy lays on his side on the ground, his chest heaving as he stares at the dead female slumped beside him.

 

“What in fucking Oblivion, Octavia!” he roars, and Clarke freezes instantly. He looks angrier than she's ever seen him.

 

She thought she'd managed to piss him off pretty well the first time they met, but apparently that wasn't the case.

 

She turns in her saddle to follow his eye line, seeing a rather petite girl running towards them, grinning from ear to ear. Her eye are startling green, like leafs on trees in the summer, her face all sharp angles, and Clarke immediately knows she's related to Bellamy. His skin is a shade or two darker than hers, but there is a definite similarity in bone structure and facial expression. She's dressed pretty much identically to him, her tunic underneath her jerkin dark blue while his is a mossy green. Where Bellamy's curly hair is short enough to frame only part of his face, hers is long, most of it braided and tugged back into a ponytail, a few stray hairs sticking to her forehead and temples.

 

“You're welcome, Big Brother,” she says smartly as she arrives, rolling the female bandit over with one foot and retrieving her daggers. Clarke is pretty sure she's staring rather rudely at this point, but her brain doesn't seem to want to comply with her directions to _shut your mouth, you look like an idiot_.

 

“Thank you,” he snaps, getting up and wiping his hands and dagger on his breeches to get the blood off. He's partially succeeded when he turns his attention to her. “Truly, thank you, O. Now turn around and go home.”

 

“Yeah, that's not going to happen,” she smirks and sheaths her own daggers on either side of her hips. Bellamy looks about ready to boil over, and Clarke is tempted to ride off without him to give him privacy. She pulls the bow back over her head and fasten it, then almost swears when she remembers that she doesn't know the way, forced to stay put. Octavia stands silently in front of her brother, hands on her hips, looking rather put out.

 

“You knew I was going to follow you. Did you really think I couldn't get away from _Miller_?”

 

“I was counting on him to look after you.”

 

It sounds like a complaint.

 

“Well, he was a little busy saving your friend here from Brynjolf.”

 

“He what?”

 

“I'll just-”

 

“Don't fucking move, Princess. I mean it,” he snaps, and she flinches as he rounds on her. To his credit, he appears to regret his choice of words as soon as he's said them, his eyes offering a sincere apology shortly after, and she nods tightly, lips pressed together. He jerks his head in return, accepting the tense reply, then turns back to his sister, who's now watching them both, looking frightfully amused. He seems to deflate a little under her gaze, sheathing his weapon at his belt and shaking his head.

 

“It doesn't even matter what happened. O, you can't come with us.”

 

“I don't want to come with you,” she replies, looking at him almost incredulously, as though such a thought had never even entered her mind. “I'm going to Whiterun.”

 

Bellamy freezes.

 

“No.”

 

“It's time for me to pull my own weight, Bell.”

 

“You already do that.”

 

“That's bullshit, and you know it. I want to be a Companion.”

 

“Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

 

Clarke sees the moment Bellamy regrets his words; It's etched across his face as he takes desperate steps back while Octavia marches towards him, backing him up against a tree. She pokes his chest viciously, if the grimaces on his face are any indication, putting emphasis on every other word with every jab.

 

“Bellamy Blake, you do **not** own me, and if you think for **one** second that I'm going to let you **stop** me, you've got another thing coming. I just **saved** your ass, and now I'll **kick** your ass, and **Indra** has taught me enough to hit where it **hurts**.”

 

Her face softens as she brings her hands to rest on the sides of his face to make him look at her, and Clarke shifts her eyes away from them, determined to give them the privacy they need. She's staring at the saddle underneath her when she hears Octavia speak again.

 

“You worry about me too much, but I can take care of myself. You know I can. It's time for you to think about yourself for a change.”

 

Clarke hears a heavy sigh, and she knows his sister has won the battle. She turns her attention back to them to see their second horse reappear somewhere on the path behind them, and Bellamy walks over and grabs the reins to keep it from running again, petting it calmly.

 

“We don't even have a horse for you,” he says, as if that could make her turn around and go home, but he swings up in his saddle and helps Octavia up behind him anyway. She throws her arms around his middle and lays her cheek against his back, closing her eyes blissfully.

 

“That's alright, I'll snuggle with you.”

 

He snorts, patting her grip affectionately with one hand.

 

“O, I have to keep an eye on Clarke.”

 

“Hey, I can handle myself just fine,” Clarke says indignantly, regretting her words as soon as they leave her mouth. She didn't want to intrude on their moment. Luckily, they seem fine with it, both wearing identical expressions of amusement as Bellamy speaks.

 

“Yeah, I noticed.”

 

She winces reflexively, remembering the moment between them where she'd left him sore and moaning in the fetal position. There is no doubt in her mind that his sister knows of that incident.

 

“Sorry about that.”

 

“It's fine. I deserved it,” he laughs, and the sound is warmer than she expected. He jabs one still-bloody thumb behind him, “Besides, Octavia helped me out.”

 

His sister tightens her arms around his middle in jest, patting his stomach.

 

“You're lucky I can get ice from the fishery.”

 

“And it made me smell like fucking fish,” he complains, shuddering visibly.

 

“You always smell like fucking fish.”

 

“So do you.”

 

She blows a raspberry in retaliation, and Clarke chuckles, a little surprised at how easy and carefree their banter is. It's more than obvious that they love each other. It reminds her of her and Wells.

 

Octavia sends her a soft smile filled with affection and reaches out her hand.

 

“You must be the Princess.”

 

Clarke shakes it.

 

“And you must be fucking Octavia.”

 

“A pleasure to meet you.”

 

“Likewise.”

 

“Gods help me,” Bellamy groans, shaking his head as he sets his horse into a slow trot down the hill.

 

 

~*~

 

 

After a brief stop to wash the remaining blood off his hands they make it to Whiterun, chatting easily among themselves in the afternoon sun, and Bellamy feels a heavy weight in his chest despite the lightness surrounding him.

 

This is the place where he'll part with his sister, and the thought of not seeing her every day makes him want to dig his heels into the ground like a petulant child, or turn the horse around and march it straight back home. He's quite pleased with himself for not having fallen apart at the seams yet, calmly helping Octavia down from the saddle once they've reached the stables, then Clarke, as they stroll calmly up the path to the gates of the city. He's been inside a couple of times, mostly on errands for Balimund concerning fire salts or other trades, and he knows the city can handle itself perfectly well. He's just not so sure Octavia's permanent presence there will be good or bad.

 

As if on cue, he feels a familiar hand slip into his, squeezing gently.

 

He nearly laughs at how easily she reads him. It's ridiculous really, when he's supposed to be the bigger man in their relationship, watching out for his baby sister, making sure she eats and sleeps.

 

Getting an apprenticeship as a blacksmith after their mother's death had been a blessing in disguise, and it kept a roof over their heads for as long as they'd need it. Octavia had taken over her mother's old position at the fishery since no one wanted to buy clothes from a child, and a seamstress was rarely needed in a place like Riften, and it angers him still that his sister has had to sink to such a level to survive beside him.

 

Luckily, Indra had been there to keep Octavia level headed, and also, incidentally, to plant more ideas in her head. The Redguard had been a Companion herself once, although she was quiet about her reasons behind leaving, but she had taught O to take care of herself when he didn't have the time to, and for that he was thankful.

 

Even if it now means a temporary goodbye.

 

The city is still bustling with activity once they've made it inside, and Octavia eagerly tugs on his hand, dragging him towards the marketplace up ahead. He grins, turning his head to look at Clarke, who is following them with a small smile on her lips. He's tempted to reach out his own hand for hers to take, but O tugs harder before he can, and he nearly stumbles and Clarke laughs, and Bellamy is determined to spend the rest of the day making sure he gets to hear that sound again.

 

He turns his attention back to his sister and follows her past the stalls and up the steps to make their way around the Gildergreen. He's never really been up here, but the tree has always caught his eye when he visits, and it's still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

 

Octavia stops abruptly in her tracks, staring up at it.

 

“Wow,” she whispers.

 

“Wow,” Clarke agrees, and he sneaks a peek at her. She's staring up at the tree with wonder on her face, and he thinks he sees a trace of wistfulness somewhere among all the wonder and sadness.

 

 _Second most beautiful thing_ , his helpful brain supplies, as he turns his attention back to the tree.

 

They reluctantly tear themselves away and walk up the steps to Jorvaskrr: A hill made of wood housing the bravest of warriors. The Companions are known as strong, honorable fighters, and he knows Octavia is praying to all the Divines with every fiber of her being that they'll accept her as one of them. She's always wanted this, even before she made friends with Indra. He smiles at her eagerness, following her and Clarke around the building and towards the sounds of people fighting, feeling something suspiciously like pride swelling in his chest, beginning to drown out his anxiety.

 

Octavia is going to be a legend.

 

Two young women are engaged in hand to hand combat in the center of the yard while their friends are cheering them on, yelling words of encouragement and what sounds like helpful tricks to fell the other. A man around Bellamy's age has already seen them when they walk into view, and he heads in their direction, a surprisingly warm smile already plastered on his face. He's a few shades darker than Bellamy, with tribal tattoos adorning his arms and part of his neck, and a surprisingly bright air around him that sharply contrasts his dangerous looking form.

 

“Hello,” he says pleasantly, holding out his hand for Bellamy to shake. “Come to join the Companions?”

 

“Not quite,” Octavia says lightly, stepping in front of her brother, smirking and holding out her own hand. “Sorry to disappoint.” To Bellamy's surprise, the man only laughs and grabs Octavia's arm warmly, a glimmer in his eye.

 

“Believe me, you're not a disappointment,” he says, and that is a whole other part of O's life that Bellamy hoped he would never have to enter into. He feels his body stiffen at the prospect of O actually liking this one, and, even worse, him liking her _back_. Judging by the lingering looks they're still sending each other he's fairly certain that leaving her here without supervision is a really bad idea.

 

Maybe that female blacksmith could continue his apprenticeship.

 

“Breathe,” Clarke tells him quietly, nudging his arm with her shoulder. He turns and looks at her amused expression. “You look like you're going to faint.”

 

“I do not,” he protests sullenly, making her giggle. He turns his attention back to Octavia, who is once again watching him with that knowing smile of hers.

 

“We'll be at the Bannered Mare until dawn,” he tells her, managing to somehow keep from rolling his eyes. She smiles and leaps suddenly into his arms, catching him slightly off guard as he stumbles, squeezing tightly back once he's regained his footing.

 

“I'll be fine. Go,” she says and steps back from him, then surprising Clarke by throwing her arms around her as well. “Have fun without me,” she winks as she draw away from them, and he catches the beginnings of a blush on Clarke's cheeks.

 

“She actually likes me,” Clarke says almost incredulous, staring as his sister and her new friend disappear into the crowd still formed around the fighting women.

 

“Well, you aren't exactly terrible company,” he teases, and she pushes him lightly. He's having a hard time wiping the grin off his face as they walk around the building again, down towards the steps and further down back to the marketplace. The stalls are slowly closing for the day, and people are starting to file into the inn beside them, and he hears a steady stream of voices fill out the air every time the doors open and close.

 

“Want to get food and drink? My treat?”

 

She smiles and nods, and he feels a tug somewhere in his belly, his heart doing ridiculous somersaults underneath his rib cage.

 

 _You've known her a day_ , he tells himself, but apparently his body doesn't seem to care.

 

She takes his hand as soon as they're inside, so as to not get lost in the surprisingly huge crowd he figures, and he looks around to see people of all shapes and sizes enjoying merriment and music, and it's so much like taken out of the storybooks he used to read to O, that he nearly joins in.

 

Resisting succumbing to fantasy, he leads them to a free table in the far corner instead, and they settle in, shoving all their belongings back against the wall. A barmaid is at their table in a flash, and they buy a bowl of soup each with bread on the side and mead that tastes almost better than White-Gold. He's pretty sure he's died and ended up in Sovengarde.

 

“Divines, this is good,” Clarke mumbles around a bite of bread, and he would have laughed if he wasn't too busy slurping down the remains of his soup.

 

“Very good,” he agrees once finished, settling back in his chair, content and happy for the first time in days.

 

His sister is going to be OK; He somehow knows this as certainly as the sun will rise tomorrow. Octavia will be appreciated by people other than just him and Miller and Balimund, and she'll be happy, and Gods does he hate it when she's right. He does worry about her too much.

 

In hindsight, her taking care of herself doesn't bother him as much as he thought it would. Mostly because she's having just as hard a time leaving him, if her sudden appearance at their table is any indication.

 

“Hi,” she says happily, sinking cross-legged to the floor in front of them and stealing a bit of bread from Clarke, earning a glare from Bellamy. She rolls her eyes but gives the bread back, stealing his instead.

 

“Lincoln took me to see Kodlak, the leader of the Companions. Or, not really a leader, I think... Anyway, I won't have anything to do until tomorrow,” she explains with a shrug, biting into the loaf with vigor.

 

“Lincoln?” Clarke asks curiously.

 

“The guy we met before.”

 

“Oh good, he has a name,” Bellamy grumbles.

 

“Don't start,” Clarke chastises, and he rolls his eyes. “He's nice.”

 

Bellamy wants to disagree with that, but can't bring himself to. Lincoln is big, yes. Around his own age, definitely yes. Dangerous, most likely. But capable of causing Octavia harm? Absolutely not. Bellamy is proud of his gut feeling; It's helped him out more times than he can count. It's given him an apprenticeship with Balimund, a friendship with Miller, an acquaintance and ally in Indra, and even a paid trip across Skyrim in exchange for protection with Clarke.

 

He knows for a fact that he should have listened harder to it when he joined the Stormcloaks.

 

Lincoln is luckily turning out to be just another person to add to his list of people he can trust, and he's simultaneously thankful and deeply annoyed by that fact.

 

“He's all right,” he shrugs finally, and Octavia slaps his leg.

 

“I knew you liked him,” she grins. He pretends to grimace painfully and rubs the spot where she hit him, and she pokes her tongue out at him. He laughs, the weight in his chest almost gone now. They're going to be just fine.

 

“Sorry,” Octavia says then, turning her attention to Clarke, who is watching them with glassy eyes and a small smile on her lips. She looks a little embarrassed to be caught, but O continues on. “We're usually not this soft, I swear.”

 

“It's fine,” Clarke laughs, but the happiness doesn't reach her eyes. He automatically finds himself straightening a little in his chair, Octavia mirroring him on the floor, and they know it's being noticed.

 

For a moment, Clarke looks as though she'd rather the ground would swallow her up than admit that her sadness has been caught. Then, he sees her shift, almost imperceptibly, a quiet determination crawling across her skin and marking her, leaving her almost tight lipped. Only her eyes give away how she really feels: the blue orbs burning brightly, showing a variety of emotions ranging from stubbornness to fear. He nearly gulps.

 

She looks like an empress ready for battle.

 

“I think it's time for you to know why I need to go to Solitude.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

“Let me see if I've understood this,” Bellamy says, brow furrowed in concentration, leaning forward in his seat, arms resting lightly on his legs.

 

“Your mother knew about your father's supposed treason and didn't stop the execution, maybe even helped it along, so you can't trust her to keep you safe. The Thalmor are looking for you because you're your father's daughter. The Alik'r and the Dark Brotherhood are looking for you because they think you killed your best friend, who was a noble. The Stormcloaks want your head because you're a noble too, and an Imperial one at that, and the Imperials in turn want nothing to do with you, because your only contribution to the war is that you know something that's already happened?”

 

Clarke nods and takes another sip of mead, not trusting herself to speak just yet. The evening is slowly stretching into night, and people are thankfully still noisy and jovial around them, oblivious to the three people deep in conversation in their own corner of the world. Octavia looks rather stunned, staring at the table in front of her, absently picking at the remaining loaf of bread in her hands, while Bellamy looks more concerned than anything, his eyes refusing to leave Clarke's face.

 

“How are you not dead yet?” Octavia asks finally, sounding so utterly childish and lost, that Clarke has to bite down on a hysterical laugh.

 

“Thanks,” she says sarcastically, noticing that Bellamy has finally looked away from her to glare at his sister, who has the decency to look at little embarrassed at her outburst. Clarke shrugs. “I guess it could be worse. I could be hunted by those Akaviri warriors as well, but they've been missing for a long time now. They probably don't even exist any more.”

 

“Bellamy's dad was a descendant of the Blades, if that helps.”

 

“Octavia,” Bellamy sighs.

 

“ _If. If_ it helps,” she emphasises, and this time Clarke actually lets herself laugh. This whole situation is so absurd, and she should be scared for her life in this city where everyone can see her and get to her, and yet all she feels is grateful that she has somehow managed to have two friends willing to listen to her story. They're not even judging her or her actions yet, but she knows they both have questions, and she's surprised to find herself more than willing to answer them. It's the least she can do.

 

“Whiterun was a bad idea,” Octavia says then, leaning forwards and placing her elbows on her legs, resting her chin in her hands. Bellamy makes a noise of agreement.

 

“We can't go anywhere she won't be found though,” he says, looking thoughtful. “The Thieves Guild will leave her alone for the most part, but that's because of Miller. Windhelm is filled with Stormcloaks, so taking her there is not an option. I highly doubt the Brotherhood _doesn't_ care about her. Even you and Lincoln will probably have to keep this from the Companions in case they want profit.”

 

“Don't worry about that,” Octavia says fiercely. “He can keep a secret.” She quiets for a minute. “Winterhold?”

 

“With all that access to dark magic? The mages can't be trusted.”

 

“Markarth?”

 

“Are you kidding, O? The Silver-Bloods would throw her in Cidhna Mine and sell her to the highest bidder if they could. Plus, the Forsworn would be on us like skeevers before we would even make it past the Reach.”

 

“Riverwood?”

 

He opens his mouth, pauses, then shuts it.

 

“Point taken,” is all he says.

 

“I'm sorry, when was Solitude taken off the table?” Clarke speaks up, feeling a small burst of irritation well up inside her. They're trying to help, she _knows_ that, but this is much more her problem than theirs. Bellamy shoots her a look.

 

“Solitude is swimming with Imperials. Even if they don't care about you, it's too risky. You could end up in the hands of spies or bounty hunters, all because you wanted a trip at sea.”

 

Clarke stiffens, eyes narrowing.

 

“I'm notlooking to dip my toes in the ocean, I'm trying to stay alive.”

 

“You can't do that if you don't think about all the possibilities,” he counters, and she can see him clenching his jaw immediately after, looking as though he's trying to stop himself from saying anything else. She turns her head to Octavia, one eyebrow raised, waiting for her to join the conversation, but O simply shrugs, giving up on the challenge with a pointed shake of her head.

 

Clarke sighs and turns her attention back to Bellamy, finding his gaze already on her. He looks tired. Older, almost.

 

“You need to think about what will happen if you're caught,” he says quietly, “and how that will affect your friends. Your family. You can't keep running away from this. You need to trust _someone_ to keep you safe.”

 

“Because that worked so well for me last time I thought to confide in a friend,” she snaps, and he winces a little, opening his mouth to argue, but she holds a hand up to halt him, moving out of her seat.

 

“I'll go pay for our rooms,” she mumbles, leaving the siblings behind, feeling a part of her heart break already. This feeling, this connection, is why she was afraid to tell them. To tell _him_.

 

She needs to leave.

 

She doesn't even know how it happened. One minute she's seeing red and close to taking his life because he stole her necklace, and less than a week later she's forcing him on a journey across Skyrim, in order to get away from danger, trusting him with her life. And what's worse, she knows she can actually trust him to keep her safe, despite how little they really know about each other.

 

To think that she let her guard down enough to become friendly with Bellamy and Octavia, to think that they could be killed now because of her...

 

It threatens to overwhelm her right there among all the patrons, and she inhales through her nose and closes her eyes momentarily, thanking the female owner of the inn for the room (singular, damn it all), and makes her way back to the table with a pitiful excuse for a smile. Octavia and Bellamy stop conversing when she arrives, and she wishes she didn't feel so on display for all to see all of the sudden. She's bone tired, dead on her feet, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her, and she lets herself slip into her seat a little less gracefully than she'd intended.

 

They're all silent for a few minutes.

 

“I think we should get some sleep,” Bellamy says quietly, his voice surprisingly even. She nods, not even bothering in protesting when he gets up and starts grabbing both their things. He turns to a standing Octavia and gives her a hug with his free arm, squeezing her close.

 

“See you tomorrow, O,” he says softly, kissing her hair, and Clarke nearly weeps. This could all be gone because of her.

 

Octavia hugs the both of them tightly, sending them a smile before making her way through the crowd and outside.

 

They make their way slowly up the stairs, Clarke taking the lead, heading across the balcony to the last room on the right. It looks smaller than she'd anticipated, with a simple bed pushed back against the wall, a wardrobe taking up another wall, and a chair beside it facing the door. There's an attic window letting in moonlight, casting silver shadows against the floorboards.

 

“They only had this left,” she says, a little confused at how embarrassed she suddenly sounds. It's not as if it's her fault the inn is full, but for some reason she can't help but feel responsible. She's thrown him into this crazy mess without his consent; The least she could do is give him a proper bed. He only shrugs at her words, dumping their belongings on the floor up against the wardrobe, placing himself in the chair. She timidly sits on the edge of the bed, hands clinging to the frame underneath her thighs.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, looking curiously at her. She swallows, willing herself to remain calm.

 

“I dragged you into this mess, Bellamy. I've put you and Octavia in danger, and I shouldn't have.”

 

“Clarke,” he says gently, watching her with some amusement, as though he's about to tell her the punchline of a joke.

 

“People have been looking for me since before I met you. You're not dragging me into something I'm not already a part of.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I was a Stormcloak. I defected.”

 

“Oh,” she says quietly, not sure what to do with that piece of information. “Why?”

 

“Octavia, mostly,” he sighs, leaning against the back of the chair. A sliver of moonlight catches his face, causing shadows of silver and blue to dance across his freckled skin in soft waves, and his eyes are impossibly dark when he looks back at her.

 

“Our mother died about a year after I'd joined. She got sick and never recovered, so I went back to Riften to take care of Octavia, but there'd already been talk of an uprising before I left. People believed the High King had become too friendly with the Empire.”

 

Clarke nods, already knowing how most of the story goes at this point. Her own father had been at a tavern with friends at the time, enjoying mead and good company, and had coincidentally overheard the plans to overthrow High King Torygg from an Imperial spy with loose lips. He'd gone home that following night and fought with her mother over the matter, and Clarke had overheard it all by accident, getting caught before she could sneak away. Her mother had sworn them both to secrecy, earning reluctant agreement, and they had put the subject to rest with heavy hearts.

 

A week later, her father was executed on the grounds of treason against the Empire, his official documents claiming that he had been working together with Ulfric Stormcloak in planning the murder of the High King, and Clarke had lost a piece of her soul that day.

 

Bellamy clears his throat, bringing her back to the present.

 

“They asked me to spy for Ulfric Stormcloak. Gather information from Jarls and such, trying to decide who would support the King and who wouldn't.”

 

He stops then, breaking eye contact and turning his gaze to his feet. _He's just a boy_ , she thinks.

 

“Octavia found the forged documents in my pack a week after I'd returned home. I told her I hadn't looked at them, but she didn't care. We fought over whether or not my joining the Stormcloaks had turned into treason or not. She even punched me when I told her to grow up and stop thinking I didn't have her in mind when I'd said yes.”

 

He scoffs bitterly at this, shaking his head.

 

“I was so angry that I nearly hit her back, but she just cursed me and told me to leave her be until I'd realized that I'd had only my own interests at heart. She was right as always, of course. I wanted to be important to more than just myself and my sister, to protect more than just my family. I wanted to be _remembered_ for something.”

 

Clarke moves fully back on to the bed, drawing her knees to her chest, utterly enthralled.

 

“And then?”

 

“And then I burned the documents,” he says simply, a little shrug accompanying his statement. “I told her I'd always put her first, promised I would stay away from any and all Stormcloaks, and got myself a proper apprenticeship as a blacksmith. The High King died a year later, and the rest you know.”

 

“Did they ever find you?”

 

His whole body stiffens, hands clenching into tight fists.

 

“Once,” he says stiffly, and she wants to take her words back, wants to reel in the painful memory she's invoked, but it's too late.

 

“Some idiot milk-drinker of a Cloak found us by accident, and he got his hands on Octavia. He would probably have killed her if Miller hadn't been there. Miller was the one that saved you from Brynjolf, as you know,” he adds with a snort, and she silently thanks the dark boy with the shy eyes. “He killed the Cloak and dumped him in the lake, and we hid in the Ratway for two days, and Gods, I don't ever want to do that again.”

 

“I'm sorry,” she mumbles into her knees, and he looks at her for the first time in what feels like hours.

 

“It's not your fault,” he says softly, some of the anger leaving his eyes, the darkness fading and making way for a different, warmer shade.

 

“Probably not,” she agrees, “but I'm still sorry you got dragged back into the war.”

 

“There's always a war, Princess,” he says warmly, and the nickname sounds like the opposite of an insult from his lips. “Doesn't matter if it's between you and your next of kin, or out on the battlefield. This is just another fight.”

 

She nods, knowing it should feel like enough, but it isn't. There's so much more on her mind, so much that she has to tell him. It's only fair. He's told her about his life freely, and she wants to return the favor, despite how much she can feel her heart constricting in protest.

 

She needs to confess.

 

“I'm scared.”

 

“Clarke-”

 

“Everything I touch dies.”

 

He blinks and swallows, watching her with wide eyes full of understanding, and she finds the words starting to pour out of her, unable to stop them despite how much she wants to keep them inside.

 

“My father was executed because of what he knew, and I was stupid enough to tell my best friend the truth, and now he's dead too. It's a miracle I got away from Hammerfell, when everywhere I turn, people are looking for me. And I don't know how much longer I can keep on running, when I just want to stay here with you and Octavia instead. I don't even know you, but I want to stay and smell like fish every day, and I want to laugh and fight and **live** with you.”

 

She barks a laugh, harsh and choked, tears starting to form.

 

“Mara's Mercy, I actually **want** to dip my toes in the fucking ocean.”

 

“Hey,” he soothes, getting up from the chair and crossing the small distance between them, and she realises she's gotten up from the bed while talking, pacing back and forth across the floorboards. She vaguely notices his arms slip around her and press her close to him, whispering hushed affection and encouragement into her hair as if she is a child, and she finds herself relishing in the deep timbre of his voice rumbling against her ear.

 

“I can't leave,” she sniffs into his shoulder, and he tightens his grip.

 

“Yes you can,” he whispers back, ignoring her protest. “You're brave. You'll survive, because that's what you're meant to do. And when all of this is over, you can always come back and find us.”

 

She pulls back in his arms to look at him. His eyes are shining in the moonlight as they focus on hers, his hair forming a halo of dark waves. She forces herself to nod.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay,” he repeats, tugging her close again, letting one hand stroke her back. She allows herself to wrap her arms around him, hands hooking under his arms and up to clutch at his shoulders, and she feels him turn his head, feels a press of lips against her hair. She tries not to notice his gaze shifting momentarily to her lips when he draws back a moment later.

 

“You should sleep,” he says hoarsely.

 

“So should you,” she says, trying to smile when he nearly rolls his eyes. She's barely known him for more than two days in all, but she's more than aware that he had planned on spending his night in that damned chair, being on the lookout for anything that could hurt her.

 

“Fine,” he says, giving her arms one last squeeze before letting her go.

 

“Good,” she counters, biting her lip. He huffs out a soft laugh.

 

“Great.”

 

She nearly chokes on her tears again, instead wiping away the remainders of what little have escaped down her cheeks with the back of her hand, clearing her throat a little.

 

Bellamy makes an awkward grimace that is probably supposed to be a smile, then turns around, starting to undo his jerkin to pull it over his head. She turns herself and loosens her bodice with shaky hands, pulling it over her head swiftly and placing it in her pack. She lays down sideways on the bed, pulling her knees up to her chest, watching as Bellamy grabs his pack and places it on the floor to use as a pillow. He pulls his tunic over his head, throwing it carelessly in the direction of their remaining belongings before laying down with his feet pointing towards the door, his sword on the floor next to him.

 

 

~*~

 

 

He wakes up slightly panicked hours before dawn when he sees that Clarke is nowhere to be found.

 

Taking in his surroundings, he sees her pack still sitting by his own, her clothes from yesterday stuffed into it, and he takes a calming breath, coming to the conclusion that she's left him some time alone while she gets them something to eat. He gets up and starts packing up their things, pulling his tunic over his head, in the middle of fastening the jerkin when she opens the door to their room. Slowly, she walks inside, her hands full of their breakfast like he'd suspected. She's wearing a short dress with her trusty bodice this time, her breeches peaking out from underneath the skirt.

 

“Hi,” she says softly, looking almost surprised to find him there. He lets his hands drop to his side, fingers flexing.

 

“Hi.”

 

She stares at him for a moment longer, something indecipherable flickering across her face, before she places their breakfast on the chair, heading past him to get to her pack. She slings it over her shoulder, bow and quiver following suit over her torso while he pulls on his own pack, grabbing the bread in one hand. Clarke smiles at him and grabs the chunk of cheese, and they make their way out of the room and down the stairs in silence.

 

He surprisingly bumps into her at the bottom step, causing them both to stumble and nearly fall face first onto the floor. Annoyed and slightly grumpy at losing his balance so early in the morning, he's about to scold her about basic rules of how stairs actually work when he finally catches sight of what she's staring at, and his mouth nearly drops open.

 

They're talking to the innkeeper, dressed in what looks like some kind of iron armor with carvings, a dark hood obscuring their face, their build surprisingly average and slender for such a legend, leaning over the counter to converse. Clearly feeling interrupted by their arrival, the hood turns slowly towards them, then back to the innkeeper, nodding once, before abruptly turning and walking determinedly out the door. Slowly, Bellamy takes the last step down, joining Clarke in the strangely muted morning activity that has taken over the inn.

 

“Was that...”

 

“Probably...”

 

Finally, after what seems like ages, he finds his voice again.

 

“I thought he'd be taller,” he admits, head tilted slightly to the side. Clarke snorts.

 

“She.”

 

“You can't possibly tell it's a 'she' under all that armor.”

 

“And you're so sure it's a man? What if it had been me?”

 

“Clarke, no one would mistake you for a man, even with armor on,” he says, and she elbows him in the stomach. He huffs out a laugh and follows her out the door, thanking the innkeeper on the way.

 

He feels bad for skipping out on his promise to Balimund on the subject of more fire salts this early in the morning, but Clarke assures him that they will have time to find an alchemist when they get to Solitude. It's the end of Second Seed, and they'll be positively boiling in the sun despite the generally cold climate if they're really unlucky, but he still digs in his pack for a hood for her while they make their way up to Jovaskrr.

 

When it comes down to it, she's more than noticeable with how out of place she looks and acts, and it's difficult to confuse her for a Nord when she's so damn small. Plus, her status causes her behavior to make her stick out like a sore thumb more than anything, and while Bellamy himself isn't necessarily the most obvious defector, he'd rather people recognise him than her.

 

Reluctantly, she accepts the hood.

 

They find Octavia, now wearing hide armor, in the middle of a sparring session in the courtyard, a big brute of a man with dark face paint hacking his way towards her with his sword. Bellamy's half tempted to let his natural instincts kick in and help her, but she seems more than capable of handling herself, her own sword swinging towards her opponents and clashing, and there's the familiar song of steel ringing in his ears.

 

“Good,” her opponent rumbles, then catches sight of them. “You've got company, whelp.”

 

Octavia turns and practically bolts towards the both of them, sword forgotten on the ground beside her teacher, wrapping Bellamy in a bone crushing hug first, then Clarke. She's sweaty in the fading firelight, out of breath and positively beaming.

 

“You should have left already,” she scolds, sounding the opposite of disappointed.

 

“We wanted to say good bye first. One of the horses is for you,” Clarke adds, and Bellamy looks to her in surprise. This wasn't part of any deal. Octavia opens her mouth to protest, but Clarke holds her hand up.

 

“I insist,” she says, and Octavia looks at her with awe and trust that nearly knocks him off his feet.

He'll never be able to pay Clarke back for this.

 

Octavia attacks with another hug that makes Clarke sigh happily, a shaky smile on her lips.

 

“Thank you for saving my life,” Clarke says, and Octavia giggles.

 

“I'll let you return the favor one day,” she promises and turns to Bellamy, giving him a knowing smile. “Take care of her, big brother,” she tells him, throwing her arms around him and cutting off basically all the circulation in the process, but he doesn't care, winding his arms around her and tugging her even closer.

 

“She'll be fine once I get her to Solitude,” he says quietly into her ear, and she leans back to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

 

“Idiot,” she tells him fondly, leaning back into the embrace and tugging her head under his chin.

 

He squeezes her tight for just a moment longer, pressing a kiss into the crown of her head before letting go. She gives them one last wave and goes back to her sparring lesson, her teacher looking more amused than annoyed by the interruption, but nonetheless barking orders. She gets into a ready stance, and Clarke takes his hand gently, tugging him away from his sister's training and out towards the gates.

 

They take her horse, and after a brief discussion decide to head through Rorikstead, which will leave them in Solitude some time before nightfall.

 

According to his map, it extends their trip a couple of hours, and he somehow knows that Clarke has decided on taking the warmer route for more than just the opportunity to escape frozen fingers.

 

She's still reluctant to leave, as evident in the way she hangs her head a little, quiet in the saddle in front of him, and it makes him want to pull off her hood and look at her face, watch her hair shine golden in the dawn's light and tell her that everything will be fine, even if he will most likely be lying as he tells her so. They don't know what will happen in the wilderness, just like they don't know if things will even turn out in their favor.

 

What he does know, is that tomorrow he'll head back to Riften and return to his old life as just another face in the crowd, and he'll do his best to forget her until she comes back. _If_ she comes back. In the meantime he'll force her to become just another distant memory to him.

 

Except she definitely won't be.

 

“Did I ever tell you about the time Octavia stole from the Thieves Guild?” Bellamy says, breaking the silence. Clarke turns her head, trying to look at him.

 

“She did what?”

 

He laughs and lets the conversation flow easily between them, telling her of the time O managed to somehow steal a bottle of that horrible skeever piss Brynjolf passed off as elixir, presenting it as a bottle of perfume to their mother, who had promptly thrown it in the lake after catching a wiff of the disgusting substance. Clarke can't stop giggling while she tells him of the time she and Wells nearly got caught sneaking out one night during a visit to Hammerfell, carefree children of fourteen years stealing a bottle of very expensive firebrand wine from the kitchen, finding a secluded spot in the woods where they could watch the stars and get drunk.

 

They share breakfast, and later lunch, while he tells her of Octavia's daggers and how they had cost him two month's worth of his pay, and she tells him of the necklace Miller had stolen from her; how Wells had given it to her the night before he died, and how he'd engraved his name on the back of it so he'd always be near.

 

He speaks of the lack of a father in his life, and how Octavia's had never been more than a face in the crowd, and why that most likely is why he's so protective of her, because he doesn't want the only prominent male figure in her life to be just another failure. Clarke is a little quieter when she admits just how alone she really feels, claiming herself to have become an orphan the day her father died and her mother sent her away for her protection, never to be heard from again.

 

They're past Dragon Bridge when he expresses his distaste for his chosen name again.

 

“Where did she even get Bellamy from?” he complains, shaking his head. “I sound like a flower. Or a plant. She could just as easily have called me _Lavender_ or _Nightshade_.”

 

Clarke laughs a little.

 

“I always wondered why my father named me Clarke. It sounds so... swift. Like horseshoes clicking against stone. But it's better than _Wanheda_.”

 

He starts at the odd name, leaning over to look at her.

 

“I Overheard the Alikr' while I was escaping across the border. Supposedly it means _Commander of Death._ They seem to think it fits,” she says in answer to his unspoken question, shrugging, and he snorts. Two deaths under her belt, maybe even three, not her fault, and suddenly she surpasses Nocturnal Herself?

 

“I like Princess better,” he says decidedly, nodding once to himself, and she swats the hand holding the reins.

 

They ride down to the base of the hill where he can already hear the seagulls screeching overhead, workers yelling in the distance. The sky has slowly turned a faded blue with clouds shaded in hues of pink and orange, complimenting the dark silhouette of the Blue Palace perched at the end of the visible cliff far ahead of them.

 

He sits a little straighter in the saddle as they make a right further down the hill, stopping at a little farm with a small mill and a stable, and he helps Clarke off her horse, trying not to let his fingers linger on her waist for longer than strictly necessary. They leave the horse after getting permission from the owners of the mill, then make their way back up the path and turn towards Solitude, beginning their trek upwards. The gated wall seems to threaten to topple over them as they make their way towards the main entrance, and he feels her fumbling fingers take his hand as they pass a guard.

 

He squeezes back before they make their way inside the city.

 

He's never actually been to Solitude, and is somewhat surprised to find it a lot more active than Whiterun. When he was younger he'd always assumed that Whiterun was considered the main capitol of Skyrim, what with the convenience of being positioned right in the middle of the land, but it's obvious that Solitude is the true capitol. They're constantly bumping into patrons on their way towards the inn, and there is a constant stream of conversation and noise from what must be market stalls up ahead and people all around them.

 

Clarke's hand suddenly tightens in his, nails digging into his skin, and he suppresses a wince as he looks in her direction. She's stopped in place, staring at a raised platform to their right.

 

The executioner's block is still dripping blood, crimson sliding in oddly straight lines down the wood to create a puddle on the stones below, and he can make out a pair of feet poking out from behind the executioner and guards preparing to take care of the corpse.

 

He tugs her towards him gently, steering her inside the inn and away from the horror.

 

They're immediately jostled towards the front of the bar, where the owner presents his establishment as the Winking Skeever, and he bypasses the burning question about the name entirely, asking instead for a room.

 

Clarke pays the barkeep, who in turn gets someone to show them the way. The girl helping them is a small and gangly thing, no more than twelve summers by Bellamy's guess, dark hair braided in a crown around her head, her blue and yellow dress swaying with each step she takes up the stairs and across the balcony to their room, opening the door to the left.

 

“Enjoy your stay,” she says sweetly, actually _curtsying_ before leaving them and heading down the stairs. He turns to Clarke with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Told you, you weren't fooling anyone,” he says pointedly, earning him a sharp look as she walks past him.

 

“She's being polite.”

 

“She can spot nobility from a mile away. Anyone can.”

 

“Well I'm sorry I'm not tall and bulky like you,” she snaps, blushing a little as the words tumble out of her. He tries to fight off the warmth in his own cheeks. He's bulky?

 

“The problem is not your size, it's your posture,” he says with a shrug, setting their packs on the floor next to the bed. She stops her process of studying the books in the nearby bookcase to stare at him incredulously.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You're too stiff. Loosen your shoulders a little. Relax your face.”

 

“My face is relaxed.”

 

He snorts.

 

“You look ready to rip me in two.”

 

“Well, you're being rude.”

 

“I'm trying to help,” he counters, knowing full well that he's actually being terrible at it.

 

There's a valid reason why she thinks he's rude; He's not exactly had the best of luck when it comes to something as simple as making friends, even as a child. He's always been prickly that way, determined to decide for himself who's worthy of his attention and who's not, and that somehow always manages to make him come across as aloof and antagonistic. He's honestly not trying to be an arrogant shithead, only trying to look out for himself, more than used to people disappointing him and his family.

 

Of course this means that while he's sizing up potential relationships, they're probably debating how best to murder him and hide the body without earning a bounty.

 

More than anything, he genuinely wants to help Clarke blend in and keep her alive, but she's not exactly making it easy for him right now, eyes narrowed at him, looking ready to stab him with a spoon. He sighs and tries again, letting his fingers comb through his hair in an all too familiar motion.

 

“The reason people take notice of you, is because of your behaviour. You don't just look noble, you _are_ one too. The trick is to act like you're not.”

 

“And how do you propose I do that?” she asks him, crossing her arms over her chest, looking thoroughly unamused. He does his best not to roll his eyes.

 

“For starters, you can stop tightening up like that. You're a human, not an inanimate object.”

 

This does give him somewhat the desired effect he was aiming for: She relaxes her stance a little, shoulders dropping, though her arms a still crossed. She doesn't look as tightly wound as before, and he considers it a win.

 

“And?” she prompts.

 

“And you should take a deep breath and try to relax for tonight. It's not going to kill you if you slow down.”

 

He winces at the poor choice of words as soon as they are out of his mouth, but she doesn't seem to notice or maybe even care, only sighing deeply as she lets her arms drop to her sides. She walks over and sits down in the nearest chair, placing her elbow on the table and hiding her face in her hands.

 

“I'm sorry,” she says, so earnestly that he feels a tug inside of him, and he's across the room in a heartbeat, crouching in front of her.

 

“Don't be,” he says gently, placing a hand on her leg, trying not to let it get to him just how intimate the gesture really is. “It's not easy coming to terms with having to hide. Took me a long time to get there.” She raises her head to look at him, and for a moment it's quiet in the room as brown looks back at blue. Her voice is a little hoarse when she finally speaks.

 

“How do you do it?”

 

It's a question he's asked himself over and over again since he defected. It's been gnawing at his bones often, making him unable to sleep, tossing and turning besides his sister on their cots, until he usually gets up and wastes the night away with reading.

 

Almost two years have passed since he decided to give up his life as a Stormcloak, and there are times when he still regrets it. It had brought security and a solid pay, made him strong and proud, someone kids could look up to one day and dream to become.

 

But it also turned him into something hollow, something akin to a cog in a machine, or a corpse steered by the necromancers he's read about in ghostly tales. It made him into the person he wasn't, and it saddens him that it took so long for him to acknowledge that he'd walked into the biggest mistake of his life.

 

It probably looked like an easy transition from soldier to blacksmith apprentice on the outside, but on the inside, he had been slowly dying. With the apprenticeship came a steep dive in funds, and he and his sister had had to move out of their little house when their mother died. Still, he had fought with tooth and nail to keep her, refused to let her even get close to Honorhall, even when it looked like she would be better off without him.

 

This person is the one he truly recognised, the brother who would champion anyone who stood between him and his family, and he had clung to that piece of familiarity for a long time, using it to coax some of his former self back to the surface.

 

He thinks that he's partially succeeded with the help of Octavia, who's been a constant presence in his life ever since he burned those forged documents. It helped seal the breach between them, the one that had threatened to ruin them forever, and it had brought them together closer than before. Of course he won't pretend that he's exactly the same as before. No one can be exactly the same for years at a time, never growing, never learning.

 

But while being a Stormcloak had taught him one thing, and being a brother had taught him another, it was the merging of the two roles that finally made him realise that who he was as a person, and who he needed to be to survive, were two very different things.

 

He tries to offer Clarke a smile, as his thumb smooths over her knee in what he hopes is a soothing motion.

 

“I realised I didn't technically have to hide,” he says then, watching her studying him intently. “I think about the ones I want to stay alive for, and I adapt the best I can. It's not easy, but I do it because I care about them, and they care about me. And because they care, they'll understand my actions.”

 

She nods, her bottom lip quivering a little, and he feels his heart break because he knows she understands. He's barely known this girl for more than two days, but she feels as intimate as his sister, accessing parts of him that even Miller hasn't found yet.

 

It wouldn't surprise him that if they had somehow managed to reach the end of the week, she would have known his deepest and darkest secrets.

 

She reaches out and places a hand over his, squeezing.

 

“You're saying that because I'm a lost case, aren't you?”

 

“Absolutely horrible,” he deadpans. “Not a convincing Nord at all.”

 

“Well we can't all be assholes,” she retorts, and he snorts out a terrible sound that's a cross between a laugh and a cough, because he can't even tell her that she's wrong. Nord or not, his people are definitely assholes, and proud ones at that.

 

It takes an extraordinary effort to let go of her hand as he gets up.

 

“Want to go downstairs?” he asks, feeling a surge of pride when his voice doesn't waver like he thought it would. She offers him a smile, but a tired one, her eyes still glassy.

 

“I'm pretty tired,” she says somewhat sheepishly, a little colour rising in her cheeks. He nods, raising his hand to place on his warm neck.

 

“It's probably for the best if I catch some sleep anyway,” she adds, and he hums in agreement, nodding again, swaying back and forth on his heels a little. He suddenly feels more awkward than he has in years. Was he always this terrible when talking to the opposite sex?

 

If memory serves, the answer was definitely yes.

 

“I'll be back soon,” he says then, determined to get out of the room before the awkward silence becomes too much. She must feel it too, agreeing eagerly and bidding him a hurried goodnight on his way out the door. He closes it behind him and immediately leans against it, head tilting back and thumping against the wood.

 

He's an absolute moron. If Octavia were here, she would probably send him not so subtle looks and tell him to pull himself together.

 

He's going to need a lot of mead to get through the night without putting his foot in his mouth again, which is why he's on his second tankard a good two hours later, fighting a losing war with himself to storm upstairs and keep Clarke company. The best thing would be to stay with her honestly, sit in a chair by the bed or the table, or read a book to keep him awake. Maybe even hold her as they both finally succumb to well deserved sleep.

 

Determined not to let his mind go there, he turns in his seat by the bar and lets his gaze wander to the other people in the establishment instead. The young bard in the center is playing Ragnar the Red, her voice and strumming barely drowned out by the talkative throng of people situated at tables and in respective corners. He catches her eye and offers a friendly smile, holding back a chuckle as he watches a rosy blush spread on her cheeks, making her look infinitely younger than she probably is.

 

A couple of men share hearty laughs and groans as one of them wins a card game, breaking his attention from the girl, and he grins to himself when one of them throws his upper body across the table and loudly bemoans his loss. A man and a woman sit at another table, gazing deep into each other's eyes, food forgotten. The man reaches across the table to grab her hand, and he sees fingers interlocking in a sweet embrace.

 

He forces himself to look away from the pair.

 

The thing that ends up catching his rapt attention is the opening of the doors that suddenly give way to a trio of Imperial soldiers walking in. The man confidently striding forwards is definitely a General, if his red cloak and detailed armor is to be believed, acting stoic and brave with two guards flanking him on either side. He looks young for a General, face too pale and set in a permanent smirk, hair slicked back and eyes dark as night. They're empty looking, and Bellamy can't help but suppress a shudder as they search the crowd. An awkward hush falls over the patrons, as if they're all suddenly unsure of what to do with themselves.

 

He's definitely not safe anymore.

 

_Fucking Oblivion and all the Divines._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully that wasn't too awful. Also, next and final chapter will hopefully be posted within one week, if all goes well. As always, no beta, so all mistakes are mine.


End file.
